My Number (Is All You Got)
by ican-whoawhoawhoawhoawhoa
Summary: The most reliable label executive of Vancouver's largest music production company stumbles upon a talent she can't pass by. (Quincest, twincest, and incest. Rated M for future chapters that will contain smut.)
1. Chapter 1

Unlike modern artists that only wanted to sell, sell, sell, the one standing before me was speaking in a lively, genuine manner. She was somehow managing a professional image as she barely avoided bouncing around in her spot, the energy emanating off of her contagious as the crowd surrounding her easel chatted animatedly about the picture I couldn't see. After all, I was here to work, just like the artist who was most likely presenting the piece to be sold, which, by the looks of it, the current buyers had some competition with passer-by that wanted in.

_Focus, Tegan…_ I shook my head, once again derailing my gaze from the honey coloured orbs that had met mine each time I just managed to recollect my thoughts. _You're here on business…_

"Miss Quin?" The voice taking my attention away from the attractive woman now seated across the room, scrolling through her phone, belonged to no one other than the person I was supposed to be looking out for. Her hand was outstretched to pull out the chair opposite mine, eyebrows stitched together in apprehensive confusion. "Are you Tegan Quin?" She tried again, pointing to the papers in her hand. After I nodded, with a slight grimace to express my feelings towards the use of my full name, she took a seat.

I felt suffocated enough in my suit attire - the tie was practically choking me and I couldn't wear my boxers with the dress pants, making the whole day a disaster waiting to happen - and I couldn't help but feel out of place in the art gallery Robyn had suggested for our meeting. I didn't understand the proposal, because our conference had almost nothing to do with paintings - however, I wasn't displeased with the view I had of a certain beautiful work of art - but I did as was asked of me, grabbing a coffee on the way from the home I'd left in my preferred war zone-style excuse for cleanliness.

Robyn wasn't wearing much of anything similar to my apparel at all. She had a white sleeveless vest on and a red tie to accompany it, and, feeling even more alien at this, I adjusted the tie around my neck to a less-asphyxiating degree. Where should I start? What should I say? Did she want to bring up something in particular? My years of experience in this profession did nothing in these types of situations. Everyone back in the building was expected to be ready for any type of person, to behave and remember that the customer - or, in our case, the client - was always right. However, I wasn't the kind to deal with assholes, and that was a common-known fact from the very beginning. I worked my way up the ranks and tried my hardest every day, worked harder on the tasks that other employees half-assed just so I could get to the point where I am now: the label executive of Vancouver's biggest music production company.

My job includes scouting for talent at local shows, looking for people to sign, and meeting the people my boss asks me to. He doesn't think many are worth his time, and the ones that he does, I interview, so all he does is pull the strings behind his subordinates. And that's 'office life' for the outsider: boring and complicated. I've often reconsidered my station and wondered what it would be like on the other side of the table - though, it isn't much of a struggle; I spend the majority of my free time with musicians I've come to be quite close with, thanks to my career choice. There are times where I've played backup for my friends' bands and took to featuring in low-key songs, but these are nothing more than hobbies. I like to think that I can make someone else's dreams come true, and I try to remember that I actually like my job… for the most part.

The interview was going slow as I followed the same old routine, filing through papers and asking and answering questions, but we finally powered through after a couple of hours, during which time the artist in the corner of the room had packed up her remaining things and left. I deemed around then to be appropriate for our departure and rose from my chair to shake Robyn's hand, the step I'd forgotten when we first met. She seemed nice and I'd gained enough information to report back to Smith with a positive attitude intact, so I bid her farewell and collected my things, placing her papers in the folder I'd promised the boss-man upon return to the company.

I set out from the gallery with the mindset to get right to bed when I got home, but my plans were immediately crushed under the scent of cinnamon buns wafting from the open door of the cafe just a few feet around the corner. In seconds the crossing light would switch to green and I'd be allowed to cross, but the aromas were growing more and more irresistible as time went on and the red sign mocked my dwindling willpower. I shrugged off my priorities and decided that a coffee would wake me up, turning into the shop just as the sound of shuffling feet and people moving signalled the change of traffic. I nodded to the man who kept the door open for me and stepped inside, trying to avoid a pathetic whimper and a bit of drooling from the exposure to all of my favourite pastries. They were lined against the opposite wall of the entrance, cashiers waiting just in front with bright smiles and bags at the ready. I moved to the counter and opened my mouth to order, but the woman already had my to-be dinner prepared.

"Will that be all?" She asked, handing me the bag. I bit my lip, opened my mouth again, shook my head, and then, rolling my eyes at my indecisiveness, asked for a chocolate lover's mocha latte, which she brought to me with godspeed. I thanked her and paid for everything, turning carefully as to not spill my purchases. I took a step forward and just caught a flash of somewhat familiar brown hair before my chest was dripping with hot liquid, the smell of hazelnut sinking into my suit jacket.


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of several tired bodies dragging themselves into the locker room that had previously been a sanctuary gave way to the first warning that I was running late, the second being Lindsey herself, the girl who was constantly turning in tardy notes, rushing around my half-dead form to get her chef pants properly aligned with the other half of her uniform, which was crisp and inflexible, making her endeavour to cover as much of her skin that wasn't either tattooed or pierced that much harder. I grunted as she rushed past me, elastic pinched between her fingers as she desperately searched for someone who wasn't mentally asleep to pull her strawberry bangs behind her ears, knowing fully well that her fashion sense wouldn't be appreciated in the section we had been placed in for the month.

"Damn it, damn it…" Lindsey was pacing between the two doors that led to kitchen and caf, eyes locked on the people inside, hoping that none of the chefs would notice her. We had little to no time and I was only half dressed, still searching for my tie and proper shoes. I slowly shrugged out of my black and yellow striped sweatshirt and replaced the familiar clothing that had gathered up my warmth since I rolled out of bed with a cold, suffocating dress shirt, the silky material immediately causing goosebumps to travel around my arms. The pink tie that was part of any dining student's uniform snaked around my neck as Lindsey grew tired of my snail-like progress and took the reins, pulling the irritating knot that I couldn't ever undo in time to add to the laundry until it was resting against the opening in my collar, which was hastily pulled down as I was dragged through kitchen.

There were various people who looked as though they couldn't have cared less that we were running late, some who pitied us, knowing exactly what we were about to walk into, and some who looked angry, obviously due to the insane amount of dishes we would be handing over to them throughout the day. Dishroom had never been any Culinary participant's favourite job, as it is often a dirty one and requires much patience, but I personally knew the student on the washing end of the giant, bulky machine and could tell that today was going to be long and merciless starting with the first water pitcher to pass the metal counter usually covered in disgusting bits of half-eaten, mashed up food.

The freshman behind Emy already looked exhausted and beyond annoyed. He was scrawny for his age, like a twig, struggling to lift the 60 quart mixing bowl that was bigger than his head onto the small mobile holder that would ease the burden on heavy shoulder blades as soon as he could place the pegs on either side into the small button-like knobs, fingers turning white under the strain, a tell-tale sign that he had probably spent his high school career in a vocational school that didn't allow freshman many jobs outside of cleaning or shadowing. Emy looked over her shoulder with a sigh and turned to him, effortlessly handling her end while the young adult she would be supervising for the next week stumbled to get out of the way.

"Don't drop it!" Lindsey teased, smiling with a laugh as she pushed open the door marked with an obnoxiously large, royal blue text that indicated it was entrance only, my wrist clutched in her hold as if I would pass out at any given moment.

The small room we entered seemed like a personalised hell as the scent of fresh coffee invaded my senses, pulling me towards the machine that was provided only for teachers regardless of the warning that all grades received with each advancing year. The green counters that ran around the perimeter of the room, stopping at the wide arch on either side that allowed servers to view their tables, were littered with napkins folded to hold a knife, fork, and spoon, coffee pots, blue trays from dishroom that held silverware in need of steaming, and the soda machine most of us used to fill plastic cups with Dr. Pepper, Faygo, Diet Coke, or OJ. I had just managed to pull the lever that sent one tiny drop of black heaven into the to-go cup when a shrill screech clashed with my sensitive eardrums.

"We're down _four_ freshmen?!" Lindsey's voice filled with a mixture of disbelief, hatred, and annoyance, so much to the point that she forgot the majority of us were half asleep and needed the hour of quiet normally granted by the routine that kept us moving slowly but surely through the list of chores that had to be done by lunch time. I peered around the corner, fingers that had retained the warmth of my bed protesting against the cool of the wall. What was she going on about now?

"We're down four freshmen and we have a function today!" Lindsey seethed, stomping into the back room with her hands flailing wildly about. "There are only four juniors and Jack is leaving for co-op at 12:00!" Her eyes were wide open, the opposite of my drooping lids. She was clearly agitated beyond what I could comprehend, as I was half a step behind everyone else in my sleepy state, and though I knew that if I were fully conscious, I'd be the one storming about, I found that I couldn't care less about the significant lack in helping hands. "Yeah, and they would probably just get in the way. They're freshmen."

The swinging door from kitchen opened and a chef popped his head in with a bright smile, oblivious to the cloud hanging above all of our heads. Thrusting his fist in the air and nodding, Chef Kelly chirped "Positive thinking!" and repeated the action twice over until the majority of the room joined in with less than enthusiastic agreements, arms lazily falling back to their sides as we moved to our assigned stations, Lindsey shooting me a look that barely penetrated my cloud of grogginess before taking her place behind the cash register, leafing through the book that held the papers designating what tables we would be serving for the day.

The lone freshman that had been commanded to shadow me in lieu of Emy, who would have normally been in dining but had been pulled into kitchen to substitute the absent dishwasher, was soon bored of following behind me and had taken to watching the others. I would have been glad that I had the chance to show new students the ropes under normal circumstances, given the undeniable fact that we'd have to be spending the rest of the year together and it was never too soon to ensure the location of each item was understood if only for future reference, but today was certainly not normal, and I was certainly not going to be performing my best without the kickstart of coffee in my system. I could easily perform every task I had by myself, leaving Danielle to trudge behind me, asking meaningless questions that would be forgotten within the next few hours that would be spent trying to remember drinks, desserts, and food that hadn't been logged into the computer yet, coupled with trying to fight off heat exhaustion from running back and forth between the air conditioned dining room and the extremely hot kitchen filled with irritated, overworked college students.

Our senses were dull and disconnected, reflexes slower than the fan that barely circulated the warm air stifling us with the overwhelming idea of setting 100 tables in under two hours with only three juniors. We groaned, bitched, and moaned until Lindsey, being in her right mind as opposed to our aimless blinking and foot-shifting, quickly made her way around to the people who looked about to keel over, handing out small cups of coffee from the Starbucks just down the block.

Danielle quietly pulled the stainless steel water pitcher normally used for steaming silverware down onto the polished counters while I nursed my coffee, watching Lindsey fold napkins into the shape of a bishop's hat before setting them on tables that still needed silverware and salt and pepper shakers.

Emy's freshman handed me the water pitcher and started filling the plastic ones with ice and a single slice of lemon, placing them beside the soda machine while we waited for kitchen to call 'go to lunch'. I made my way over to the coffee machine, careful to keep my hand away from the coffee pot resting just under the pull lever that allowed steaming hot water to flow into the pitcher. We quickly got to work, pulling out silverware from the blue container Emy brought in and some from the drawer, burning our fingers as we used coffee filters to rub off any unseen hazards to future customers then placing them on the tray that would be carried around the front as tables were set. We had gotten only halfway through the 167 forks when we heard Emy shout, "Go to lunch!"

…

"That was brutal," Lindsey groaned as she massaged her shoulder, rubbing the tense muscle underneath overheated skin in hopes of alleviating the worries that had tied and knotted themselves up there since the beginning of the day. She looked about to punch through someone's skull, she was so angry. I wondered how the day would have gone if we had had one or two more freshmen, if the extra help would have caused more stress or would have dissipated some of the apprehension that still trembled in the air. It wasn't irregular for juniors and freshmen to get into fights - in fact, I could remember when I was first starting out, terrified to ask questions because everyone looked so busy and so caught up in their own agendas, and I remember that I caused even more of a predicament by being so shy. If it wasn't easy then with the five of us all present on a daily basis, I can't imagine how Danielle must have felt being the lone survivor of an unfortunate foodborne illness breakout.

In all honesty, I was surprised that she showed up. If it were me, had I known that I would be the only one of the four other people I would be working with for the rest of the year to bother dragging my lazy ass out of bed, I wouldn't have taken the effort out of my day. I would have stayed under the warmth of my blankets, comfortable in my pyjamas. After all, isn't that what the majority of the freshmen have been doing, laughing at all the effort we're putting in to a day we could have avoided by throwing in the towel?

My brain was throbbing with the pain of a newly awakened headache, the weight of my stuffy head leading me to think that my jaw was somehow going to snap off its hinges and crash to the floor my feet were barely connected to. I still had things to do regardless of my own personal problems. I refused to be like the kids that played hooky just because they could, but I knew that today wasn't going to be very productive unless I got rid of the pounding in my temples.

"It isn't that hard to remember that the _plastic _water pitchers go in the _blue overhead_-"

"Linds!" I waved my hand in front of her face, raising my eyebrows when she paused mid-rant to give me the morsel of her attention not wholly consumed by blistering fury.

"I'm gonna go, okay? I still have some things to do and I need aspirin if I want to get any of it done."

…

A crowd was beginning to form around the painting I'd chosen for the auction, pointing and whispering about certain aspects they deemed the most impressive. I was buzzing with excitement, pride filling me with the motivation to ignore the fact that they were not only viewing but judging a very personal piece of art: one of the tattoos that I'd never gotten.

I was as focused as I could possibly be with several people shouting at me, waving their money as the person beside them shoved and elbowed into their personal space, attempting to grab my attention with their blatant impertinence. However, there was only one person that my eyes were willing to pay any mind to, and she wasn't even amongst the sea of people I should have been looking towards.

"Miss," A flash of green intercepted the view of brown curls I'd been enjoying, making me snap my eyes back to the hand that brandished a considerably large wad of money. "Miss!" The woman tried again, her soft features pinched together.

"$500!" She shouted, once, twice, and a third time just to ensure that I heard her over the other appeals of 100, 150, and 300. I couldn't suppress the brow raise that the sudden large quantity evoked, nodding to show my approval as I stepped closer to the woman, smiling my best grin. "Thank you," I said, taking the cash and stepping back to hand over the painting, suggesting a bag or any other means of ensuring the precious artwork's safety. She shook her head, blond ponytail following the motion as she took hold of my masterpiece, officially making it hers.

…

She was across the room, talking animatedly with a woman in a white vest and red tie. I could only assume they were here on business, what with the papers spread out between them - not to mention her outfit - but something told me, despite how much of a show she put on, she wasn't too happy to be sitting in a gallery. I had been using my phone as means of a decoy, secretly spying on the extremely good-looking woman across the room, trying not to morph into a stalker as my mind raced ahead of me, picking out subtle movements and inclinations, analysing the littlest things in attempts at finding out whether or not these two strangers were friends or something more, albeit it being none of my business. This obsessive behaviour was finally too much for me to sit through, and although I had been planning on talking to the attractive businesswoman after her meetup with the other female my one-track mind deemed less important, it had been over thirty minutes and they still seemed to be going strong, so I packed up what was left of my things and ventured to the closest coffee shop.

…

I had been sitting in the same seat for at least thirty more minutes longer than I'd told myself I'd stay. I had finished my to-do list and no longer had a reason to be rushing about, and it seemed as though the rest of the world was slowing down, forcing me to take in miniature details I hadn't been able to notice in the rush of school or the auction.

For one thing, the weather was beautiful. The sun wasn't obscured by the promise of rain or the kiss of passing clouds, blessing the streets with a flood of warmth. The scent of coffee coupled with nearby cinnamon rolls had my mouth watering. My stomach rejoined with the complaint, the knowledge that anything I cooked probably wouldn't be as satisfying as a lump of cinnamon and sugar compelling me to stand and make my way over to the counter.

I turned on my heel, ready to hide my weakness for sweets behind another purchase of hazelnut coffee that would be easily disclosed by the cup I was still nursing, and bumped right into the well dressed woman from before, the collision forcing part of my drink to empty itself onto clothes much nicer than my own.


End file.
